


The Spirit's Place

by devera



Category: Assassin's Creed III - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 02:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devera/pseuds/devera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor does what he can to send the spirit of his father to the next world. Haytham, as usual, has other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit's Place

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt over at the latest ACkinkmeme ( _Connor mourning Haytham, because we know deep in his heart he had wanted them to be family again._ ), and out of need to make something about the end of AC3 right again, at least in my head. Not that I didn't enjoy the hell out of the story, with all it's angst and what-not, but yeah, there was still a part of me that wanted a happy ending for _somebody_.
> 
> Needless to say, 'ware! There be spoilers here. Also needless to say there are some implications here you won't understand unless you have in fact finished the game.
> 
> Also, unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine, and oh my god I hate thinking up titles!

It is far longer than ten days, but Connor believes the gods will understand. There has been so much death, much of it at his hands, and they must be very busy indeed. Not all the offerings in all the lands that the Patriots till and plant and harvest with such efficiency would be enough to send all the spirits on, so the delay is probably not so great a sin. Besides, Connor has no one to speak condolences for him, and no-one to receive the possessions he has managed to gather – nothing of his father's most important belongings, his blade, his hat, the ring he wore or the sword he carried. All those things have disappeared with his body and there are no guests at the ritual, unless he counts the soldiers now manning the fort who recognise him or else know well enough or have the sense enough to leave him alone and who mingle and talk in hushed voices around him and give him a wide berth on patrols.

And so he sits, the offering at his side. It is difficult. The effort makes him tremble, sweat. The ground is hard, unforgiving. The wound in his gut has mostly healed, although Doctor White has said that he must be careful, that the wall of his muscle that keeps in his insides is weak now and that strain may cause those insides to try and push out through the weakness, but he still aches all through his middle. If such discomfort is the price that he must pay for this ceremony, then it is well. Three days. It is as much as he can afford and perhaps more than Haytham deserves, but Connor will do this, will sit and sing and make the offering to the gods and pray that Haytham's soul finds its way to the Great Spirit, or to his own god if the Great One will not have him. He does not know if he will be heard for the gods are quiet since the Godstone crumbled to dust, but perhaps they are still listening. Perhaps it will not matter that Connor has no body to burn to free the spirit. Perhaps it has already been burned, as the Patriots have been doing with the masses of their dead. No one can tell him.

And so he sits and sings. It rains on the second day. His father's blood was already soaked into the soil many weeks ago, so there is nothing to wash away, but it is somehow then that Connor feels alone. He sings to the sky and the rain soaks his clothes down to his skin, through to his very bones, and his voice is hoarse and for the first time since he put his knife into Charles Lee's heart and drained it of its poison, he feels truly alone, feels truly as if his father has gone and that not even his ghost remains.

But still he stays. Morning bleeds into afternoon, bleeds into night. The Hunter is hanging high in the night sky when the rain eases, then stops entirely, as if it no longer has the heart to sustain itself. He barely notices. His song trails in and out in catches and he feels hot, his skin beneath his clothes like the air before a storm, prickly and sensitive. But he will stay. He will do that much. There is no hate in him any longer. He has spent it all, and he is tired. He would rest, if he could, but he cannot falter. He must be prepared. The Templars may have been defeated, but they will no doubt return.

"Of course they will."

He jerks a breath in, opens his eyes, looks around him at the words but cannot see a speaker. The fort is shrouded in early morning mist, chill and damp. Everything is grey, soft, featureless. He can see – barely – soldiers standing on the battlements, walking their posts in the seeming void but their voices, if they speak at all, are lost in the fog, too far too hear. And then there is a sound, the crunch of a boot on the dirt and rock, and he turns his head, sure this time.

A figure steps out of the mist. Connor is not surprised to see it.

"Father," he says, both greeting and understanding. "You walk in the spirit place."

Haytham inclines his head once, acknowledgement perhaps. He looks no different to when Connor saw him last, looks in fact as he did when they first met.

"Well, yes," he returns, as if it should be obvious. "You killed me. Quite spectacularly, I might add."

"You left me no choice!" Connor objects, tensing to get to his feet, but immediately Haytham raises a hand in a quelling gesture.

"Peace, son. I'm not here to fight with you. That's behind us now." His tone is strangely gentle, sweet, like a father's tone ought to be. Connor is not sure he has ever heard it before, and he's not sure he trusts it now.

"Then why _are_ you here?" he demands, feeling childish and foolish even as he says it, but Haytham does not mock him for it as he might have once done.

"Only to say goodbye," Haytham says, shrugging a little. "To bring you some measure of closure, of vindication, if you will. You were right. We... were wrong. We did not know how much."

Connor blinks at him, his mouth falling open in surprise.

"Yes, yes," Haytham says quickly, waving his hand dismissively as he turns and takes a few steps to his right and then stops again and stares down at the ground. It is the place, Connor realises, where his body had lain. "Before you go believing yourself mad or the world turned upside down, what I mean to say is that death gives one of our... heritage a changed perspective, as it were. I now see things I had not seen before, know things I had not known. You did what you were meant to do, and things are as they should be. If I'd had my way, if the Order has its way... Well, let us just say it's not likely to be pretty and leave it at that."

Connor frowns at this. So like Haytham to talk without truly saying anything at all.

"So, you are what? Apologising?"

Haytham looks at him at that, a small, almost sad smile pulling at his lips.

"Let us say more expressing my regret that it had to come to this, that I had no choice, as you have had no choice, as those who will come after us will have no choice, and that it is all necessary in order for him to be who he must be when the time comes."

"Still, even in death, you make little sense to me," Connor sighs. "Who is 'he'?"

"One way or the other," Haytham says, his tone sober, dark, "our Saviour."

"The gods have told you this?"

Haytham looks at him, and his jaw moves just slightly. Connor, due to painful experience, has long since learned this is what he does when he is withholding something.

"I have deduced it for myself. The 'gods' will not help us, boy, but neither can they see what it is that we will do. When it seems as if victory is theirs... Well, it might still come to pass that we will snatch it from them. But, that's neither here nor there for now, and I must be getting on."

"Your time in this world is at an end," Connor agrees, accepting, but then Haytham surprises him yet again, perhaps one final time, by laughing, not unkindly.

"Oh, no, boy. Not in the slightest. Things to do, plans to hatch. If only you knew. There is no rest in death, not for us."

Connor might have been offended by such a notion if Haytham did not look so terribly pleased at the idea.

"Then I wish you safe journey," he says instead. "Perhaps we will meet in the arms of the Great Spirit one day. When we do, I will embrace you as a son embraces a father."

Haytham looks mildly cross at that. "Oh, pish," he snorts. "Don't be utterly ridiculous."

And without Connor really understanding how, Haytham is suddenly before him, on his knees in the dirt, leaning forward and catching Connor up and pulling him in. Connor tips awkwardly against him, and then Haytham's – his father's – arms are around him and his hat is bumping against the side of Connor's head, tumbling off and to the ground somewhere beside them as Haytham presses his face to the side of Connor's throat and Connor feels something within in him....give, fail, some until-now undetectable wall crumbling under the embrace. Of a sudden, he is embracing Haytham back.

"No matter what has happened, what will happen," Haytham says softly, roughly, "there is a part of me that has loved you deeply, fiercely. My son."

"Father," Connor breathes gratefully, painfully. He is being squeezed so tightly he could not escape even had he wanted to. "I too."

"Be well, Connor," Haytham tells him, and the world begins to fade, blur. Or perhaps it is merely Haytham, but Connor can still feel him, his hand on Connor's shoulder, gripping gently, his mouth upon Connor's brow, pressing a kiss there as a father would. "Be who you must, my son." His voice sounds as if from a greater and greater distance even though his arms are still about Connor, even while Connor cannot breathe enough to answer him, to tell him to stay, if only for a little longer. "My only son, Connor. Connor... Con..."

+++

"...ner. Connor."

He opens his eyes, and he is no longer where he thought himself to be, but in a room, lying on a soft bed. There is a light, a lantern on the wall, and someone leaning over him.

"Be easy. Rest easy," a familiar voice urges gently and there is a warm hand on the place where his father's had rested but a moment ago. "Do you know me?"

Connor frowns at the figure, finally puts a name to face.

"Commander?"

Washington looks relieved, smiles and pats him on the shoulder gently before sitting back a little. He is stripped of his normal attire, looks merely to be a man at this moment; worn, tired, worried, but strong, stronger than Connor has seen him look to date.

"Thank the Lord," Washington sighs. "I was worried we would lose you. The doctors have been in and out since dawn. Said if your fever didn't break we ought to start carving you a headstone." It seems a thought he likes little, because his expression twitches into sudden displeasure. "What the blazes were you doing out there for four days straight?! With no food, no water, in the rain and the wind and the fog, and with a wound such as that?! Why, if Captain Jennings hadn't come to check on you, we might have only found a corpse!"

Connor tries to push himself up in the bed – it is not proper to be lying here like this - but he is weak, he realises, and Washington holds him down easily.

"I was –" he starts, relaxing back into the bedding, his whole body suddenly aching and the wound in his side a hot, throbbing pulse of distant agony. "I was singing my father to the Great Spirit. They could not give me his body and I-"

Suddenly, his side is not the only thing hot and painful. The rest of the words stick in his throat like thorns and his face seems to heat so that his eyes start to- start to-

"Son," Washington says, softly, infinitely sad. "My dear boy. It is all right. I understand." His hand curls gently around Connor's where it lies upon the bed and Connor clutches at it convulsively in this moment; does not, in all honesty, want to let it go. "No matter what else is between a father and son there is always and ever that. You loved him. In his way, I do not doubt that he loved you too."

"Yes," Connor chokes out. "Yes."

"Do not be ashamed of those feelings. It is, after all, what makes us human."

Connor swipes at his wet face with his other hand.

"I have- ... I know. I have made my peace with him." He gulps in a steadying breath. "I apologise for having troubled you."

"What?" Washington says, eyebrows skirting his hairline. "Don't be silly, my boy. You have done so much for us, for me. It is no trouble. In fact, I was hoping to discuss with you- Well, offer, really. A place. As an aide. An advisor. I have been giving much thought to the things you have said to me, and I would heed your words to the best of my ability. Will you give me your guidance again?"

"I?" Connor blinks up at him, still wondering if perhaps he is dreaming, or walking yet in the spirit world.

"When you're well again, of course," Washington says quickly. "There is much to do, but your health is my most sincere concern. You may stay here as long as it takes to recover, and then we will talk, eh? So much to do. So much."

Washington is, Connor realises, mostly talking to himself now. He smiles distractedly and pats Connor's hand again and then climbs to his feet.

"I'll come by again later," he assures. "But I'll let the doctor know you're awake, and the cook, and I'm sure you'll be better in no time."

Connor watches him make his way to the door, feeling an odd amount of affection for the man, despite their differences. And then he sees his gear and his coat hanging on hooks by the door. And a hat, a familiar blue tricorn of remarkably fine make. Washington sees him looking and mistakes his expression for something else.

"They brought everything you had with you in when they found you. My apologies if it was the wrong thing to do."

"Uh, no..." Connor tells him distantly. "No, that is all right. Thank you."

Washington nods and steps out of the room and closes the door carefully behind him, and Connor lies upon his bed and stares at the hat, his father's hat that was not amongst the possessions he had been given that belonged to Haytham Kenway, but that is hanging there, as real as if it had always been there. As if it always would.

The idea makes Connor smile. He is still smiling in fact when he falls asleep again, no longer that grey place between worlds but a place of light and hope and a future that he cannot yet see but can almost, almost reach out and touch.


End file.
